Approached without a Qualm
by TheSweetClover
Summary: Set during Garment of Shadows, the second night after Holmes and Russell are reunited. The pair struggle with the fact that Russell can barely remember her long partnership with the great detective, let alone that they are apparently man-and-wife. Just a little oneshot as I felt the chapter in the book incomplete for my fangirly wishes.


_Author note: Wow, long time no see ! Have a oneshot. This is set in Garment of Shadows, the second night after Holmes has been reunited with the wounded Russell. I thought the chapter in the book ended abruptly and then the next morning she conveniently remembered almost everything of importance. I wanted more so I wrote it. Enjoy!_

* * *

"_My dear Russell, never have I approached you without a qualm."_

_Extraordinary, how it can hurt to laugh, yet also to heal._

My amusement began showing itself as a weak, tremulous titter, a condition no doubt caused by my rather unhealthy, un_easy _state. It soon grew, however, into a raucous, if somewhat hoarse, guffaw. I could hear the rustle of my roommate's bedthings, and before long a soft chuckle drifted from his side of the dormitory. I could feel a tension, a worry, beginning to be let go; I'm not sure if it was more myself or Holmes. Our laughing floated quietly off into the darkness and I felt no need to chase after the sound with further talk. I had thinking to do.

I flipped over onto my side, biting back a grunt as my numerous bruises reminded myself to go about it more gingerly the next time I decided on such abrupt movement. A minute swish of hair-against-linen betrayed Holmes as he moved on his pillow, turning his head to check that I hadn't fallen to my death or succumbed to my concussion or imploded from my inability to remember the last several years of my life. My lack of dying seemed to satisfy him, and the _swish_ whispered once again.

I could not make much out of the darkness. Even though my eyes had grown used to the night by now, Holmes was nothing more than a dark lump on top of another dark lump, and a fuzzy dark lump at that; my spectacles were resting on the bedside table. Although I could not make out his features at present, I found I had no need; the face of Sherlock Holmes jumped into my mind's eye with hardly any effort. I could hardly remember the man, and yet I could carefully point out every last insignificant detail of his hawk-like countenance: He was an older man, but one still full of strength and vigor; not _elderly_ by a long shot. He was extremely tall and very thin, but every last inch of his form held hidden an iron strength. His once raven-black hair was growing peppered, and his clear grey eyes could flash from a winter's day to a savage storm in the span of a moment. His chiseled profile gave him an imperious air, one that was furthered by his straight stature and strong shoulders. He was enormously clever, but although he'd never admit it, his pride far outshone his mind.

I knew this man, knew him deeply. And yet I knew almost nothing about him at all. All I had were hazy memories; watching bees in the countryside, squatting around a campfire together, shoving my nose in a book while he droned on about…something. I was aware that I knew him, should know him; all I had to do was meet his gaze to be aware of that. I also knew he was apparently my _husband_. I had, however, no earthly idea what I felt about that at present or what I ever felt about that to begin with. I assumed I must love him, being that we were married. I would guess that he loved me.

"_Never guess, Russell. It's a sign of a poor mind. Disgusting habit."_

I snorted aloud at the chiding voice that broke through my thoughts. A hint of a memory drifted by: Holmes' grey eyes flashing at me from behind a newspaper, wreathed by the aromatic smoke of a pipe. A roll of my own eyes, exasperated yet amused, as if I had heard such a speech many times before.

He heard my snort. "Are you alright, Russell?" came the soft query, followed soon by rustling and movement as Holmes propped himself up on his elbows, no doubt peering with concern at me through the darkness that separated us. I could just see his outline and the gleam of his eyes; the moon had started to shine in through our window.

"I'm fine, Holmes," I replied. "I did not mean to wake you."

"It is no matter; I was not sleeping."

Silence closed uncomfortably back in around us. In the growing moonlight, I watched his profile as he lay, staring up at the ceiling. Every so often he blinked; he was choosing not to, or was unable to, close his eyes and sleep. Of course, neither could I.

"Holmes," I began. His head turned sharply, almost expectantly. He opened his mouth to speak, but I ventured before he could gather his words. "What are we to each other?"

I would have called his face unreadable, but it seemed that I was long-practiced at translating the barely perceptible furrowing of his brow and parting of his thin lips. He was confused. "I am your husband, Russell. You are my wife."

"Yes, I _know_ that," I bit back, rather more sharply than I probably should have. I could see him wince, although my words themselves held no daggers. "But practically. I'm your, what? Your assistant?"

He snorted almost at once. "Assistant! Hardly."

I tried my best to hide my growl of irritation, although I found I could not stop my fists from clutching angrily at my sheet. "What then? Your trophy wife?" I spat. "Keep me around to amuse and look pretty? Quite a span between us, even with the War."

There was a shocked silence, and Holmes said nothing for what seemed like a long, long time. I waited, fists curled into balls, for his furious reply. I knew what I had said had not been exactly fair, but nothing about this ordeal seemed fair. I barely knew who _I _was, for God's sake, let alone some middle-aged man claiming to be my husband.

With such an internal tempest raging, I was quite unprepared for his response.

"Russell," Holmes said sadly, with such gentleness I almost jumped. "I know that I am an old man, and I ask myself every day why a young, marvelous woman would want to spend the next few decades of her life tied down to me. You claim to love me. I will admit that it's one of the few things I do not understand, but in this instance I find one does not have to understand to believe wholeheartedly."

I made to speak, but he interrupted me with an upheld hand. "You are not my trophy wife, and you are not my assistant. You are my partner, in the truest sense of the word." I attempted again. Again he refused me. "MM! We are partners of mind and of heart, to use a rather emotionally-saturated turn of phrase. You are obviously unaware of this at present, so I will not have you affronting our marriage when you seem to know nothing about it." He made an irritated noise in the back of his throat and flopped down onto his pillow.

I was still reeling. "Count me incorrect," I ventured carefully.

"Quite. You are hardly _pretty_ enough to be a trophy wife, Russell."

"_What?" _I cried furiously, snatching a boot off the floor with the intention of chucking it at my husband's head. My shoulder let out a sharp complaint at the movement; I was too outraged to care. Dare the man claim to be married and make gibes about my looks in the same breath? The boot would only be the first assailant, and once I was through he was not about to continue sleeping in my room, either.

My arm drew back with a determined motion, and it was only a curious gleam in his eyes that kept me from following through. Was that amusement? A strange emotion for one about to be pummeled by an enraged amnesia victim. I lowered my weapon and narrowed my gaze, trying to make sense of the impish delight that glimmered in the moonlight. "Why…" the question trickled out, but it went no further. I was hit with a veritable flood of off-hand memories, of countless times when the same chirped insult had been directed at me, followed swiftly by a flash of glee in the clear grey depths.

"_Thank heavens you're not a pretty girl, Russell. Otherwise it would be a shame to truss you up in rags like this."_

"_Good God, Russell. Promise me you'll never decide to get some beauty about you. I've no idea how I could manage to keep the young men from stealing you from this old codger."_

The boot dropped to the floor with a thud. I was not, however, about to let Holmes off quite so easy. My brown woolen sock flew through the air like some kind of strange tropical bird, and descended upon Sherlock's nose with the grace of a heron coming in to land. Or lack of grace, rather. He let out an undignified yelp and batted the aromatic gift away from his face, snorting loudly as he attempted to diffuse the odor now embedded in his nostrils.

"Russell!" he chided, sounded quite offended.

"Hm," I replied nonchalantly. "I bet a younger man could have fended that away. Shame how the reflexes go, is it not?"

I felt more than saw the thoughtful gaze beginning to drill into me. I lifted my eyes and met the questioning grey look, unable to keep a smirk from playing at the edges of my lips.

"My dear Russell, you _are_ impossible," Holmes said tenderly.

"All credit is due to my teacher," I replied with a playful tilt of my head.

A look of joy spread over his face, so much so that I would have been able to see the change even without the aid of moonlight. "You remember?" he breathed.

My smile faltered. "Nothing more than bits and pieces," I replied weakly. "It's like I find a single piece of a puzzle, an important piece, but I've long forgotten where I've put the rest of the parts."

"Do you remember how we met?"

"Vaguely. Bees and paint. You thought I was a boy."

He chuckled softly at that. "And I found myself sorely mistaken," he said. "Do you recall anything else?"

I furrowed my brow deeply, wincing at the pain that flooded my senses as I attempted to draw back the heavy curtain that lay draped over my memories. "I remember gypsies," I tried. "I remember black coffee, blacker than night. I remember pipesmoke."

Holmes was now sitting up against the headboard, knees drawn up and fingertips tapping together to some beat only he heard. "Is that all?" he asked. I'm not sure I imagined the desperation that threatened to shake his normally firm voice.

"I remember violin music," I offered helplessly. Then, as I gazed at his studious form, another half-remembered memory hit me. "You would like to be smoking a pipe now," I blurted out. "You'd be wearing an ancient mouse-grey housecoat over your nightclothes. I'm always threatening to throw the tattered thing out, but I never would. It offsets your eyes and your hair in the most distinguished manner and it smells like home and warmth."

Had Holmes his pipe, it would have fallen out of his gaping mouth. "It offsets… what?" he blabbed. Then, rather startlingly, his expression suddenly took on a roguish turn. "You never said you liked it so. I should have been able to guess."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

His smirk melted away as rapidly as it had appeared. "I would venture that you remember nothing of that aspect of our marriage," he grumbled.

I didn't have to remember to understand what aspect he was speaking of. I flushed a rather deep shade of crimson, suddenly finding myself unable to look directly at the man in the far bed. Being that we were married, obviously we did have something of a physical relationship. He had already expressed some of that, what with his offering to help with my hair in the bath and the gentle way he had inspected my head-wound. Nonetheless, the fact remained that this man was old enough to be my father, and I remembered next to nothing of a romantic relationship with him. For all I knew, he could be spinning some fantastical lie.

When finally I turned my head enough to take a glance at him, I saw Holmes gazing gently at me. "You don't even remember the first time I kissed you." It was not a question but a statement, and a sad one at that.

I shook my head feebly.

He tucked his chin down to his chest for but a moment. Finally, taking one heavy breath, he slipped back down under his sheets and turned away from me. "No matter," he said quietly. "Goodnight, Russell." The still, dark blur of his back betrayed no emotion.

I followed his lead. "Goodnight, Holmes," I replied, so soft he probably did not hear me. I turned away carefully, attempting to placate my torn and screaming muscles, until I was at an appropriate vantage point to look out at the moon. After a few long moments of bathing in the cold silver light, I allowed my eyes to drift shut.

_His right hand was strong, outstretched against my back and pushing me in closer against him. The other was tangled in my long hair, seemingly torn between drawing the strands away from my face and planting myself even more firmly into his embrace. His kiss was hard and rough, and right at the edge of my mouth where I could not gain purchase to answer the kiss with my own. I found my hands scrabbling against the fabric of his suit, feeling the lithe muscles of his back working underneath my eager caress. The water of the Thames lapped bluntly behind us like a pool of dark ink, mirroring the night sky of London above. _

"Holmes!" I cried, coming upright so fast I promptly set my head throbbing.

He sat up instantly, nearly falling from the bed in his haste. "What is it? Are you alright?" he demanded, seeing how I clasped my hands to my temples and assuming the worst.

"After you kissed me, you told me that you had wanted to do that from the moment you met me," I gasped, doing nothing to prevent Holmes from scrambling over and feeling the temperature of my forehead. His lean fingers felt cool and nimble as they danced over my skin. "I reminded you that originally you thought me a boy. You returned with a retort about how concerned you were. I am aware you lied." In the next moment, I found my face buried in his shoulder. I felt some portion of my mind click back into place; while many of my memories still remained in the dark, part of the curtain had begun to lift.

"My dear Russell." He said my name like a prayer, and held me close for a long while. I nestled up against his neck, an unspeakable wave of relief flowing over me as I began to finally make sense of the one thing that ever made sense in my world. It was not long before my throbbing head subsided.

"Holmes," I breathed against the stubble on his neck. He gave a content grunt by way of response. "Up on the bed with you. The hard floor's no place for an old man."

He sighed deeply and relented, although I could feel the ghosting of his lips up my neck as he rose to his feet. "Sleep well, then," he said, taking my hand and, after a moment's hesitation, planting a tender kiss on my wedding band. He directed me with a wink and headed towards his side of the room, letting his fingers trail away from my grasp.

My hand did not release him.

"Russell?" he began, passing me a questioning gaze when he found his progress stopped. "What are you—"

"That was not the bed to which I was referring."

"Ah." A spark lit up his eye and he drew towards my bed with remarkable energy. The breath caught in my throat; more than one memory had suddenly drifted out of the darkness. Old man, my left foot.

Holmes looked near about ready to throw himself onto the mattress when a cloud of concern drifted across his lean features. "Russell, I do not think we—after all, your condition."

Ah, yes. My concussion. Blast it all. "Obviously not," I snorted at him. As if I hadn't even considered the notion.

He began to edge away; I'm not sure if that was for his own benefit or if he was terrified that I was about to spring upon him and hemorrhage my brain in the process. "Well, goodnight my dear Russ—" he started, stammered more like.

"Just come hold me, you sodding fool," I growled irritably, interrupting whatever orders for rest and recuperation he was about to drown me in.

His gaze snapped up from where he had been making his retreat into the far bed. The moonlight was nearly gone by now, but I did not need its light to see that gleam return to his piercing eyes. He straightened up slowly, deliberately, and was again by my bedside in but a few measured strides. The room took on an air of great purpose and moment. The gaze looking down at me was cool and clear as ice, like a hawk with its prey in sight.

Mine was irritated. "Are you getting in or not?"

The atmosphere broke. Holmes gave a loud laugh and crawled into the bed next to me, taking care to be gentle as he wrapped his lean arms around my torn shoulders. I snuggled back into his whippet-thin form, letting out a soft sigh of contentment as my breathing fell into time with the steady heartbeat that I hadn't recalled I missed.

He seemed no less serene. A kiss gently touched my aching temple, and then brushed by my ear. "Russell, I do love y—"

"Yes, Holmes," I interrupted, eyes closed as I attempted to sleep. "I remember."

I could not see his smile, but I felt it. Just as I felt my own.


End file.
